Recently, the Flasher went toe-to-toe with the Streaker. Both are high-speed vigilantes who fight crime in their birthday suits, though the Streaker only appeared on the scene last week. The Flasher has been quoted saying "I wouldn't mind him stealing my costume so much if he were a WOMAN, but seriously dude! That's MY schtick!"....

Daily news headline:MIGHTY MISS PREVENTS SUN'S EXPLOSION (AGAIN)Dr. Nova was thwarted yesterday by the lovely and accomplished Mighty Miss, who had spent weeks following rumors and leads about Dr. Nova's nefarious plan. Dr. Nova was operating under the asumption that blowing up the sun would "increase (his) street cred". When asked about his plan to survive the destruction of our planet, he paused, looked thoughtful, and commented "I really didn't think that far ahead."

Mighty Miss commented "Considering this is Dr. Nova's fifth attempt to blow up our sun, this was fairly predictable."

Haywire

You stand outside the magnificent, gleaming doors of the main entrance to Supervillainy, Inc's headquarters. The glittering building is several stories high, with large windows from which flight-capable superpowered types flutter back and forth. The name of the company, as well as their stylized cape logo, glitters on the side of the building. Your resume has already been sent, and you were informed to come in by the front entrance for your interview.

While this complex is easily visible from the nearby highway, as well as for several blocks around, it is actually situated in a portion of Empire City that experiences less foot traffic. While the occasional gawker may swing by, they are few and far between; there is simply not that much of interest. At least on the outside.

The doors have no apparent handle, though a small button and an intercom are discreetly to the side.

Shades

You are sitting in a comfortable chair directly in front of the Mogul's desk. He looks coolly across the vast expanse of costly imported wood, fingers laced. He is a brawny man of middling height, with a strong, square jaw, massive hands, and short brown hair. His charcoal grey suit has been exquisitely tailored to flatter his build, and his port colored tie has the faint gleam of very expensive silk. Every inch of the man radiates taste, wealth, and a certain amount of cold calculation. His eyes are unreadable, hidden behind a thin screen of wrap-around smoked glass attached to his head. Circuitry glitters faintly on his headset, relaying untold quantities of information. It is interesting to note that scattered on the walls around him are various photos and newspaper clippings of him and his company. Some are simple group shots of the company picnic, though there is one of him shaking hands with Mighty Miss with a dead giant squid in the background.

"Six months," he says abruptly, in a resonant, slightly husky baritone. "Six months is the minimum time you must spend with us. At the end of those six months, if your parole officer considers you safe, you may be released to the general public. Of course, I hope you will consider staying with us at the end of those six months, as I believe you have great potential.

"While you are with us though, I expect obedience to the chain of command. Not just me, but any operative I assign to mentor or coach you. I do not expect your respect yet, but we will give you the discipline and training you need. Regardless of your personal feelings on this, you should be aware we have you over a barrel on this one. At this point, the only alternative you have to my tender mercies is to be locked in a prison specially designed for powered individuals.

"Personally, just between you and I-- that's actually a death sentence. Not literally, no," he adds with a grimace. "But for your mind, yes. Our government will balk its hands at shedding blood, especially blood that may come useful. After a few years, you might even get early release if you promise to be a good boy and do a few under the table deeds. But something I've noticed with people like you, Mighty Miss, even I-- is that our abilities are essential for our sanity. Even the most milquetoast individual, crying that 'they just want to be NORMAL,'" Mogul adds in a sickeningly sweet falsetto, though his expression makes it clear he has no tolerance for those folks, "needs their powers to stay sane. Even untrained, even if it's only occasionally, any person with powers that they don't get to use ends up losing thier mind. Those powers are as intrinsic as breathing. Trust me on this one Shades; I have seen some of my people after spending years in that type of confinement. They are never the same afterwards."

He sets his hands down, and gives a slightly bitter smile.

"I have read your file, and know that you may have some trust issues. I can give you this guarantee though: I will train you to the best of my company's ability. I will try to expand your options so that you have as many opportunities as possible after your six months with us. I will also NEVER let you go to the wolves. For better or worse, you are my responsibility now. That means if a mission goes sour, you won't be left behind. If a smear campaign is launched against you, unless it's one that YOU actually wanted, we will work to end it. If you are personally sued for something carried out under our name, we will stand by you and hire the best lawyers available.

"Do you have any questions? I will entertain anything regarding the operation, your instructors, or myself."

"...talking as if you have any DAMN clue about me..." the young man thinks to himself.

You wouldn't think much to look at him. He wears very simple clothing, a dark purple sweater with dark brown pants. Not exactly the best combination of colors, but in a colorless world they get the job done. Namely, it avoids buying a hot pink shirt with neon yellow pants. With his thin build, it almost looks like he could disappear into the chair he's seated in at the moment. The only thing that really stands out are his dark glasses. One would think it difficult to see well indoors with such glasses on. People don't usually question why after he removes them.

As he sits there, having listened to the Mogul's rundown of the situation, he can't help but feel angry at the man.

He expected the speech basically saying: "You are our b#$ch now, son." That was a given, after his last court appearance. And... the incident leading to that.He figured it was only a matter of time before he lost his freedom again.After all, freedom in his lifetime was the exception, rather than the norm.

But the part about 'needing' his powers? Going insane without them? If anything, the opposite is true for Shades. His powers have been nothing but a source of problems.

His 'powers' were the excuse the "Quintessential Quartet" used to do painful experiments on him.His 'powers' were the reason "PAETA" abandoned him to the authorities.His 'powers' have been nothing but a curse as long as he can remember

He wants to leap out of his chair, and tell the Mogul to stuff it.That he doesn't know a damn thing, that he can't possibly understand what he's going through.

...but that would be incredibly stupid. This is his office, his 'turf', so to speak.And right now, unfortunately, Supervillainy Inc. is Shades only option. For now, he just grits his teeth and ignores the anger, trying to focus on more practical matters.

"... you said there would be training. What kind of training do you mean, exactly?" Shades asks the man.

Haywire glanced around him as he realized what kind of threshold he was about to cross. Sure, he'd turned over a few homes, long-time store houses... hell, he'd even tried robbing a bank once (unfortunately he'd been so jittery he'd only barely gotten away with a few hundred bucks), this... was the big leagues. The moment of truth. The end of the circle and, if you believed in that crap, his destiny. He pulled slightly at the scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face, the uncomfortable material kept chafing against his skin, but he had to get used to it, it was all made from an insulated fabric that could resist fairly high charges of electricity, and had been worth the bucks he had had to spend to get them. It didn't help that everything from his jacket to his boots were made out of the same or similar stuff. He felt like he was walking around in a cloth-covered rubber-suit.

In his one hand was a duffel bag with some personal effects, and the civilian clothes he'd worn on his way over here, although thankfully he'd had the foresight to actually make a costume for himself with pockets, in which he kept a small amount of cash and a few necessities... nothing that would link him to the alias he'd made up for himself when it'd gotten clear he couldn't return to his old life.

Before he started thinking too much about it, he forced a harmless but uncomfortable jolt of electricity into his brain, which made him wake up good and well. Any normal human would've died from it, but to Haywire it was just a little pick me up. Sure, he wasn't a brain surgeon, but so far he'd charged enough volts through his body to fry all the world's collection of whales well and good, to no obvious negative effect, so he kept doing it. Keeping his mind from straying.

So with a shake of the head he drew a hand through his tousled, styled hair, enjoying the tingling of electricity that quickly connected with the tip of his fingers, small bolts of lightning crackling at the tips of his locks. So cool.

Making sure to ground himself, he pressed the button to the intercom, speaking into it with the lowest tone of voice he could manage (he'd been training it in case those damn bastards came after him with voice-recognition hardware), "Haywire. Got a meeting scheduled."

"The basics for any member of my organization, as well as specialization in your own talents. Hand to hand combat, firearms, evasive driving techniques-- and more, depending on how you want to work. At this point, we would probably focus on refining your powers, by simulating situations that you feel comfortable working in. Fortunately, the Golden Girl can cope with any unintended damage you inflict."

The Golden Girl-- a name that triggers a faint memory. She was reputed to have been the other contender for Mighty Miss' position as guardian of the city, but for whatever reason, the authorities chose Mighty Miss instead. She had been gracious in defeat in all the interviews following that.

The Mogul pauses, reaches under his desk, and pours himself a small glass of effervescent liquid. A brief glance at the label indicates raspberry mineral water. He takes a brief sip, then sets it down.

"Care for a drink?"

* * *

Haywire

"Hello, Mr. Haywire!" comes an enthusiastic, feminine voice through the intercom. It is high enough to be called 'chirpy', though just low enough to escape being an annoying twitter. The doors swing open, revealing a lushly appointed foyer, with small sculptures of famous villains scattered throughout. Set slightly aside and farther in, with her back to a pillar, is the owner of the voice. A computer, three telephones, and several video screens surround her desk. Interestingly enough, her placard indicates she is simply "Intern".

While sitting, she looks like she would be a fairly tall woman if standing. Slender, almost to the point of waif-like, with magnificent blonde hair tied back into a high ponytail, she looks like a transplanted cheerleader. She wears a powder blue business suit and a matching domino mask, behind which her eyes are a blank, empty glow. That last feature is faintly perturbing, though her smile is warm.

"You are a little early, and the Mogul is still occupied with a meeting. Would you care for any refreshments while you wait?"

Haywire had taken one final deep breath to steady his nerves as he was let inside the foyer. With his gloved hands he pushed open the twin doors (needlessly, but for effect) and look straight at the Intern, crackles of lightning around his own, glazed eyes. Truth was, you could actually make out his old dull-blue eyes if you looked really closely, but Haywire never let anyone. The man was imposing, but the more time you spent around him, the more it felt like it was in fact the clothes, more than his physique, that made him so. Thick, heavy sweater, factory-gloves in black leather, steel-toe boots, even black make-up around his eyes... and the hair... wow, Highlander 2 anyone? The guy knew how to present a disturbing image... and the crackle of a discharge whenever he came close to anything remotely conducting of electricity certainly drove home the point.

"No."

He gave his answer to her question while walking over to a part of the room where he'd be... mostly out of the way for people passing through, but standing in the way enough that someone would probably be ticked off by it. He'd seen it done so many times, he knew exactly where to stand.

With his arms folded, he tried looking right in front of him, like he was just passively waiting, like a statue... but occasionally he'd shoot the clerk, er, 'Intern' a glance, feeling a bit bad that he'd been so rude but... hey, that's how a villain's supposed to be right? Professional and to the point, being nice was being soft.

The Intern, whether because she's stupid or because she's genuinely trying to chit-chat, seems oblivious to his rudeness.

"You're looking to be one of the combat guys, yes? Don't worry-- this is my own curiousity, not anything for your interview. I'm not really cut out for it, but I get jealous. Seems like the guys up front get all the headlines. Not that it's not deserved, considering the risks, but I'd be sashimi out there," she says, rapidly typing as she glances between various monitors.

Haywire's brow creased slightly and he glared at the woman. How was he supposed to look professional if he was found doing small-talk with the receptionist? Any other time, he would've talked with her, but he was here for an interview with the most prestigious institution of supervillainy in the... the whole damn country! Oh... it made him frustrated...

He shuffled slightly, squeezing his arms together even more tightly, and he glared at The Intern under his brow, his face lowered slightly.

"I'm not here for doing precision work or support, If Supervillainy needs something destroyed, and I get paid for it, I don't care."

He chewed his lip a little under the scarf and then added,

"Not like I can do anything else even if I tried, you should be happy you're not out there getting hurt."

"Oh, I'm perfectly happy not getting hurt. The part I'm sad about is not being capable of going toe-to-toe with the big names," she says lightly. "Though--" Frowning, she abruptly switches screens, clicking until she sees something.

"Oh shit!" swears the Intern, and then she grabs a small microphone on the desk, tapping a button.

"5B! Fifth floor, section B, flying intruder! Looks like Hawkman, ID not positive. 5B! Does not appear armed, but not a guarantee. Wyld Chylde, this is your chance!" booms over the intercom, reverberating throughout the building.

Then she stops, and is all apologetic smiles for Haywire.

"Some idiot left the window open and unattended. Wyld Chylde should be able to handle it, and she's been looking forward to devouring a PAETA member," the Intern says sweetly, just as if she weren't just talking about a possible intruder and something that sounds suspiciously like cannibalism.

* * *Shades

"5B! Fifth floor, section B, flying intruder! Looks like Hawkman, ID not positive. 5B! Does not appear armed, but not a guarantee. Wyld Chylde, this is your chance!" booms over the intercom, reverberating throughout the building.

The Mogul taps his visor irritatedly, symbols and circuitry flickering over his eyes.

"Ah, Wyld Chylde's already in the area."

He sips his raspberry mineral water, then gives a shark's grin to Shades.

"It might please you to note that Hawkman is being dealt with right now," he says with savage cheer. "Those PAETA morons can't seem to get over the fact that our cafeteria serves meat."

Hawkman will trigger a memory for Shades; one of PAETA's lower powered members, he is essentially a man with wings and a mild degree of super strength; enough to lift a car, but not toss it. He was also fond of throwing his weight around, but quite clumsy when not airborne. Wyld Chylde is also a familiar name; not someone he met personally, but a scratched out name on a locker at PAETA.

Haywire managed to suppress his reaction to a cocked eyebrow, but didn't trust his voice not to reveal his surprise and... shock at this. Whoever this Hawkman was, not to mention Wild Chylde... well, fuck, they eat people around here? Sure, he'd read the tabloids occasionally, but cannibal supervillains? That was just sick, man.

"Heeh..." he managed after a while, clearing his throat for a second, "Well, if it's under control... no need for me to go up there and bash some heads in, haha."

What kind of a macho idiot reaction is that?

"Anyway, I don't think I'll be up against any of the big names anyway, from what I've learned they'll probably just give me low-profile, blue milk runs. Whatever."

"You'll probably start that way, with a more experienced person along to help. The Mogul is very good about getting everyone up to speed, though. One of the requirements for everyone, even the chef, is to learn things like hand-to-hand combat and surveillance..."

The Intern's voice trails off as she peers into a screen, then nods slightly to herself. "Oh good, Wyld Chylde's heading him off... and somebody shut that window.

"Anyways," she says apologetically. "Sorry you had to see that. We normally don't get intruders, but one of the flying types left the upstairs window open, and Hawkman flew in. We build everything to withstand even Mighty Miss, so sneaking in like that is the only way to enter if you don't belong. Not that I hope you ever have to try, of course!" the Intern adds with a brilliant smile.

He recalls one new recruit in PAETA, who kept insisting they go after the mineral water companies.That person was convinced that the companies were tainting the environment with radioactive runoff.They didn't last too long with the group, as Shades recalls.

That group certainly had some... 'interesting' members, for sure.Still, he couldn't honestly say they were all bad.If it weren't for the group abandoning him, he still had some pleasant memories of...

Shade's thoughts are interrupted by the announcement of Hawkman entering the building.

"I am afraid he does take bird-brain to new levels," Mogul agrees amiably. "At least Wyld Chylde will get some exercise."

He waves his hands in clear dismissal.

"I'll be doing an interview for a new employee shortly, so I'd appreciate it if you went to the training room on the third floor. Take the elevator outside and make a right. I'd like the Golden Girl to test your fitness levels before we begin the hard stuff."

Haywire gave a shrug, "Whatever, it happens. Heroes and villains, I don't give a shit. I just want to work my nine to fives and get the free dental..."

He paused for a short moment, then added, "'sides, those PAETA creeps've got no love in my book, tell me when and I'll deep-fry one of them whenever." he gave a low chuckle and shifted his feet a bit, wondering if the Intern had trained to be this nice and professional, or if it came naturally. Well, it was just proof he was signing up with the winning team, this kind of... power equalization was needed...

ShadesThe elevator is unusually large for an office building, though considering the number of supers with unusual body types, it makes a certain amount of sense. With a soft 'ding', Shades is at the third floor.

This area is much more utilitarian than the Mogul's office, or even the foyer. While the walls still are decorated with photos, autographs, and newspaper clipping, the impression is much more organic and 'homey'. A few potted plants line the hall at intervals, but these aren't the normal potted palms and such; there is a lovely selection of Venus flytraps, a vine-filled sprawl of leaves, and-- oddly enough-- miniature roses. Considering that there is only one door at the end of a windowless hall opposite the elevator (but not directly facing it), that must be the training center.

Once inside... it looks like nothing more than an oversized gym. Or perhaps a gym for Olympic athletes; one area is completely dominated by a pool which must be dechlorinated, as it lacks that distinctive 'pool' smell. Series of ropes hang from the ceiling, while balance beams, a small wall, and the other makings of an obstacle course line up against one wall. There is a more conventional 'gym' area, with free weights and cardio machines, but a significant amount of that equipment has been tailored to those with superstrength.

There is a glass walled area dedicated to target practice, with a variety of weaponry on display. However, everything from simple switchblades to something that looks suspiciously like a flamethrower is under lock and key.

One person is currently using the equipment over on the weight-lifting side. She is a tall, rangy woman who looks like she's been assembled out of raw muscle and bone, with her brown hair cropped close. A dusting of freckles is faintly visible under golden bodypaint, traced into elaborate designs and motifs. While perhaps not a typical 'costume', it guarantees that her golden sparkle, more than any other feature, will be what people remember when they look at her. Currently, she's doing bicep curls with two hundred pound weights in each hand. For now, she either hasn't noticed Shades or is ignoring him.

HaywireA resonant baritone comes from a small speaker on the Intern's desk.

"Hello, Intern. I am ready for Haywire."

"Alright, boss. Sending him up."

She kills the speaker, and gives Haywire a thumbs up.

"Good luck up there! Knock 'em dead!" she says cheerily. Realizing what she said, she makes a face. "Well... not literally. He's on the fourth floor, so you can just use the elevator. Follow the butterfly," she adds, blowing on her palms. A delicate, blue and lavender butterfly whisks into the air, fluttering to a position left of her desk.

He figured the training area would be something plain-looking, stark and grey with lots of hi-tech machines.He was not expecting to find a semi-normal looking workout room.Perhaps his time with the Quartet had colored his judgment a bit.

He looks around, trying to see if anyone else is there.

...and then he catches sight of Golden Girl lifting her weights.

...Golden 'Girl'....

...no.... this is no mere 'Girl'....

...the word 'Goddess' immediately comes to mind...

...a Goddess where every gold design tightly hugs her curvy...

....

"...goddamit, get a hold of yourself, man." the shaded one thinks to himself. He needs to focus on what this training area has.

Not the Golden Godde... Girl.

He decides that for now, getting another look around the workout area is a better idea.

Haywire gave the intern a nod, trying to casually show that while he appreciated her cheering, he was by no means the kind of man who would show it, instead displaying a professional and humorless behavior while stepped up to the elevator. He watched the little butterfly with a crooked eyebrow as it fluttered up to the twin doors of the elevator, and as he pressed the button that opened them, it continued inside.

Well, that was pretty neat. He wondered if the little thing was an illusion, or whether she was actually able to create butterflies and stuff from nothing... or maybe she'd had it there all the time,and was controlling it with her mind, like some kind of... insect-controll-power...

Oh well. Stepping inside, he pushed the fourth-level button and gave a semi-salute to the Intern before the doors closed, tipping his forehead with his index- and middle-finger. Whilst inside he hummed a little for himself, watching the butterfly before they reached the fourth floor. Huh, pretty detailed work for an illusion, if that was the case. Maybe she was fascinated with insects. It took all kinds.

Stepping out, he made his way after the butterfly to the office of the Mogul, knocking on the door.

Fortunately for the shaded one, she is not a mind-reader, and he is able to examine the training room in peace.

Most of the area is padded; not quite to the level of an insane asylum, but the walls are deceptively cushy and everything looks like it has been designed to hold up to the more destructive powers in a superhero's (or villain's) arsenal. To be fair though, there's not a whole lot in the room that escaped his attention the first time. There is only so long he can stare at the wall before he gets noticed, though.

"Hey, kid! Looking for something?" calls the 'goddess', putting her weights back. She makes her way over, using a towel to dab at her forehead before tucking it into the edge of her gym outfit, previously camouflaged due to matching the gold of her face and bodypaint. She moves like a trained athlete, without a single wasted movement and just a slight hint of a swagger. Cool green eyes peer at Shades critically, before memory clicks into place.

"Shades, right? I'm the Golden Girl, or Gold for short. Call me Girly or GG and I will rip you apart," she says with a smile. At least, it can be called a smile because teeth are showing. However, a trace of humor dances in those eyes, not completely repressed.

* * *Haywire

As the elevator rose, Haywire would have noticed that the butterfly began thinning out, becoming more translucent and less realistic.

When the doors to the Mogul's office swing open, and the butterfly flutters in, it is nothing more than a faint blob of color, finally flickering out as it lands on the Mogul's desk.

"Hm. The Intern's getting better," Mogul comments, glancing at where the butterfly used to be. "Come in and sit down," he continues brusquely, in a tone that's simply a polite demand rather than mere request.

Rather than engaging in small talk, he cuts to the chase, eyes unreadable beneath the flickering circuitry of his visor.

"I've seen your resume. I've looked up your history. I've seen your collateral damage. So tell me; what makes you valuable?"

Haywire had had a few moments to collect himself, and as the doors swing open, he is once again scowling, tiny flicks of lightning dancing across his eyes.

He was focused enough not to really care about how the room looked, or how... normal it all seemed, but the first remark caught the villain-to-be off-guard and he took a few seconds to register the invitation and request for value confirmation.

He cleared his throat slightly and nodded.

"If you need an alarm system taken out, I'm your man. If you need to black out a whole block, I'm your man. If you need to blow noisy helicopters out of the air, I'm your man. I know my way around circuitry of any kind, I know what makes a machine tick and I know where to put a clamp on the pulse." He paused to let his words sink in, and then he added as an afterthought.

"If you need someone to be fried alive in the worst possible way, I guess I can do that too."

"Allow me to delineate. A killer does it because it needs to be done. A psycho does it for the sheer glee of the act. Both respond to what I want. This means no 'recreational activities' I have not approved or endorsed. I will admit, I have both types on payroll, but at least I know which is which. Any less than legal activities you undertake while on a mission can be covered up, silenced, or otherwise dealt with. At the end of the day, whatever else may happen, we watch after our own here. Anything particularly stupid you do off duty will be frowned upon, especially if it can be traced back to us. So no lighting hobos on fire or frying kindergarteners on the evening news."

He pauses, taking a sip of his mineral water.

"Also, if you have any scruples about who to kill or not kill, please tell me now. I try not to send operatives into situations that test their delicate sensibilities."

"I ain't no psycho." Haywire raised his voice angrily, "Sure, I like the sound things make when they blow up, but I'm not going to go FMJ on your ass once the shit's going down." His eyes blazed white for a second, but then he seemed to catch his temper and he twisted a little in his seat.

"I'll do whatever the fuck you want me to, bar killing kids. Want me to be sneaky, I'll damn well be sneaky, but if you want shit blown up, I can oblige." he made a waving motion with his hand, "You don't have to worry about my free time, as long as I get to blow off steam at work, I'll play nice. Don't worry."

"Right now, you'd need a bit more training to be sneaky," the Mogul replies drily, unphased by Haywire's flare of temper. "Control is an issue we'll definitely raise, if you are accepted. And the objection to killing children is duly noted. Please understand that your first few missions may not be combat based at all. We do protection services, infiltration, and casing for other organizations. Usually, combat missions go to more seasoned personnel.

"Now, if a mission goes sour, for whatever reason-- we watch after our own. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. This means we will haul you out of the fire if feasible, and will send a group back if we can't immediately help. This means you will be watching after your fellow operatives, regardless of personal likes or dislikes. This includes any kitten-eating psychopaths you might happen to be teamed up with at the moment. Is this understandable?"

Haywire gave a shrug. So far, so good it seemed to him. Sure, he might be teamed up with a vicious serial-killer, but meh, at least that vicious serial-killer would be under contract to haul his ass out of whatever fire...

"Whatever, sounds good. Look, mr Mogul, I'm not some street-trash with an attitude. I've got an education and a goal in life, and that implies staying alive. You make sure to put the paycheck in the envelope, and I'll go out terrorize grannies or whatever evil scheme you want done. I'll dance."

He sat wide-legged with one arm tossed over the back of his chair casually, tapping his heavy boots against the floor impatiently. Occasionally he'd put the fingers of one hand together and then slowly draw them back, 'strings' of electrical discharge fizzing between them for a while. "Show me where to sign and I'll be a Supervillainy mook."

The Mogul pauses, examining Haywire with an unreadable expression. Finally, it cracks into a small smile, much like a shark's.

"Duly noted. In that case, I'll skip most of the remaining pleasanties, regarding our excellent health care, training program, and so forth. Welcome to the big leagues," he says, standing to give a firm handshake. "To be frank, power like yours, however raw, is very rare and I am very glad you decided to join us. Normally I would send you to the Golden Girl for your physical assessment, but I would like you to meet Paracelsus, our physician, first. I think you might have enough juice to snap Gold out of complacency with her powers, but I'd like to make sure you do not permanently damage her either.

Haywire tensed, but then chuckled at the man's response, giving a nod. He'd have to look through the papers later, make sure everything was up to snuff, but not here, not where they could see it. Especially considering what he'd said. This was all about respect, having it and giving it to the right people, and he wasn't going to let any respect the Mogul had gotten for him sink because he was cautious. No way. No.

"I'm sure I'll find out about most of that stuff anyway, but that's not why I'm in this business." he said casually as a response to the remarks about health care, training, pleasantries. "But I wouldn't mind testing what I can do against this Golden Girl..." his face contorted in a nasty smile and even though his mouth and nose was hidden behind the scarf, it was obvious he liked the prospect. "Hope this Paracelsus knows how much she can take before she croak, I've yet to meet anyone who hasn't been short-circuited." he chuckled again and took the man's hand firmly, repressing his electrical powers momentarily. Had it been naked skin touching, he probably couldn't have done that, but with the insulation-gloves he'd made, he'd have to consciously amp up his power to cause any damage... usually.

"One question. When do I get to pluck the Mighty Missus from the sky?"

"I'm afraid there is a waiting list for that. Right now, it's too much bad PR if any of us directly target her, though scrapping against her in the course of a normal mission is acceptable. Plus, to be honest, her existence is the source of our bread and butter. Many smaller, less organized 'villain' groups hire us to run protection and interference in case Mighty Miss goes after them, so if possible, any 'take-downs' are prefered to be non-lethal. We actually have a project under way which might remedy that... but it'll be a few months in the pipeline, so I'll share the details with you all once more is available.

"If you really are interested in proving yourself against Mighty Miss, talk with the Golden Girl. Gold's actually ex-hero, and is the only one I know, hero or villain, who can survive a direct one-on-one with M. She's going to be your main combat instructor, so try not to alienate her too much in your first fight. She has a remarkable healing factor, and I've seen her regenerate limbs in less than a minute. Even if you short-circuit her briefly, she should come around. She generally does."

Whether it is a facade, or the man actually does regard his employees as temperamental possessions, the Mogul speaks as casually of Gold's healing ability as a dog breeder might describe a recent batch of puppies' sizes.

Haywire nodded slightly. That made sense. No point in killing off the source of your income, and if anything it would be a great motivational to have something that could kill her, if only to make you feel less bad about getting your ass handed to you by her.

"Fine, I'm more interested in this gig than to trade fistings with the missus anyway." he chuckled darkly, "so, is there anything more you need me to sign in blood, or can I go and vent thirty minutes of built up static charge against Goldie?"

"Some paperwork, but that can be filled out at your leisure. Just drop it off with Intern before the end of the day. No blood required."

A sheaf of bound paper is handed to Haywire. A brief glance would indicate it's fairly standard boilerplate; a few adaptations for the superpowered crowd, such as safety protocol for flying people, but generally acceptable. A substantial salary is mentioned, as well as the fact that like most villain groups, Supervillainy, Inc. does not hold its members responsible for collateral damage... though a note adds that 'force excessive to the situation' may warrant disciplinary action, or a talk about acceptable damages.

"Paracelsus is immediately down the hall. Don't shake hands with him unless he initiates it," Mogul adds, almost as an afterthought.

Haywire made a show of simply glancing at the paper before stuffing them into one pocket of his hoodie, rolling them up slightly. He wondered for a moment if he'd gone too far, but then decided that if anything, promoting himself as a brain-dead grunt could be the smartest career move. If anything it would lower the Mogul's guard in case he needed to highroll it out of there.

"Great, I'll get it signed. I'll go see him." he reached out to take the man's hand again, quite possibly giving the mogul a slight shock (nothing more than a fritz of course), before he approached the door and went to see the doc.

She takes his hand in a firm grip, squeezing slightly before releasing, as if testing for something. Her posture relaxes, some of the restrained aggression easing. Apparently she has interpreted his stammering as nerves.

"For today, we'll just be doing some assessment. Basic things, like you might have done back in school. I'll time you on running a mile, see how much you can bench, and then go a round or two to check your combat skills. Mogul didn't actually tell me what your powers were; he just said you'd be 'interesting'. Mind explaining what he meant?" Gold asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Haywire

The Mogul winces slightly at Haywire's handshake; apparently more than a slight fritz went through, even with the gloves, but he makes no comment.

As informed, a plain double-door labeled "Medical" is immediately down the hall. It swings open to the touch, and prompts a burst of rock and roll music. The sound dies off after reaching the first chorus.

Inside... this looks a little more like what one might expect of a superpowered organization. It resembles a cross between an infirmary and a mad scientist's lab. One side of the large laboratory/office is a jungle of wiring, tubing, and benches strewn with vials of odd things. The other side is as neat and sterile as one might wish, with beds, a large glass pod of some sort, and miscellaneous tools neatly laid onto a table. A stairway and small elevator are situated in the corner, presumable to provide easy access to the good doctor in case of an emergency.

On the 'mad science' half of the room is a wiry, balding man wearing massively oversized goggles, and slightly turned away from the door. What hair remains on his head is charcoal grey and neatly combed. He wears a large labcoat and loose slacks. The tennis shoes are a rather odd contrast, as he is otherwise impeccably dressed. His right hand rests in a shallow tray of clear gel, though a strange green dye appears to be percolating through it. His left hand holds a recording device up to his mouth.

"Batch seven, green discoloration starting to show after five minutes, and someone is coming in, so will resume later," he finishes, setting it aside.

Without turning, he calls "Hello there. Is that you, Wylde Chylde? Did you try to play with your food again?" There is a slight edge to that question, as of a personal distaste held tightly in check.

Haywire nodded to himself with appreciation as he entered the labs. Yeah, this he could get behind. All that was missing right now was the... doomsday weapon that'd freeze the entire planet, or the experimental supervirus that would turn all humans into obedient mole-people. The tennis shoes? Man, if he wasn't a bit eccentric, he wouldn't be a mad scientist, would he? Probably doing some kind of postmodern satire of the socially accepted image of mad scientists... or something.

"I heard he got away. I'm here to get my vitals, doc." He'd been on the verge of continuing the dumb grunt routine, but he figured it was getting old. "hope you can make more sense out of my 'affliction' than I could." he looked around the lab. "Hope you've got better ways to measure voltage, too. I broke the last one I had."

Paracelsus lifts his hand out of the gel, gently shaking it dry. He glares at it briefly, and what green gel lingers gradually turns a creamy white color. He washes it off in a nearby sink, and turns to face Haywire.

"Oh yes. You'd be the electric man. Berserk? No, Haywire. Have you figured how much voltage you can pump yet, or give me a rough estimate of your capabilities? The only other electric person on staff at the moment is Sparks, but he's pretty low-level as far as the electricity goes."

Once off the topic of Wyld Chylde, the edge relaxes out of Paracelsus' voice, becoming a rather plummy tone, like one's favorite uncle. While he meanders a bit, the impression is less of senility and more of someone with so many thoughts running around at once that they can't help intersecting.

"All I know is I was way above 35,000 when I did." He chuckles as he crosses his arms, looking at the doctor, "that was the higher measuring voltmeter I could find... but judging from what I've seen, I wouldn't discard the chance that I'm up in the hundreds of millions, like a lightning bolt..." his eyes squint as he grins beneath his mask.

"I'd like to think I could kick a thunder-cloud's ass with my powers, but I haven't been able to check... sufficient to say, if you have any lightbulbs you want glowing, don't come to me. I'd probably turn it into plasma."

"Anyway, you've got another guy with electrical powers? ...Sparks, huh?" he chuckles, "not a bad name... not as cool as Haywire though."

Funny thing was, he'd been damned lucky about that. The name had been registered for a online store selling computer parts, but they'd failed to pay their licence-fee on time and he'd actually been able to trademark it! Well, under a false name, so any infringements were hardly going to give him any royalties, but he'd keep up the facade and pay in his dues, just for the sake of it in case he ever hit it big.

"So probably a bit more than the typical stun gun... anyways, Sparks may not have such a ring to it, but he tries his best. He holds his own in a fight. Now, can you absorb electricity as well as emit it, or is it a strictly one-way stream? Would tasering you actually harm you, or just tickle a bit?" Paracelsus continues, searching on the 'mad science' portion of the room. With a soft 'aha!' he locates a cuboidal object about a foot along each axis. Two antenna poke out at forty-five degree angles to one another, and various wires coil among themselves along the side. Somewhat off-center on one face is the small glass window and needle indicating that this is a voltmeter, of a sort. Cradling it carefully in his arms, he moves the device to a bench near Haywire.

"Waste not, want not!" he says excitedly, jury-rigging a collection of cables to the impromptu voltmeter and an outlet near the glass pod. "The revival machines are huge energy hogs, so I'm always happy when I can find an energy source that doesn't black out the building... and from the sound of it, you might even be able to power the temporalis ex machina!"

Paracelsus frowns at that last phrase, eyebrows wrinkling. "Hm. I mangled that badly. Well, Latin was never my strong suit. And you don't have to power anything you don't want to... Lord knows that number of times I tried getting Gold to cut her head off, but she just wouldn't listen.... Anyway! Please place one hand on each antenna, and give this as much juice as you can! I have tested this with lightning before, and it was able to handle the load."

"I've not exactly gone putting my fingers in a wall socket," he muses, rubbing the back of his head, "and I know I get pretty damn dizzy if I use my powers in larger charges or over longer periods..." he frowns, "I don't get any shocks from my own electricity though."

He wondered whether the doc would try to taser him next, so he quickly added. "Now that I think about it, I've had a few spill-over accidents when I've overcharged generators and shit, never seemed to hurt me, though it did tickle a bit." he chuckled, "but I'm guessing you want to really find out... and you want me to power that thing? Sure, I'll play along, but I warn you doc... things might get a bit hot."

And with that he undid the clasps at the arms of his gloves, pulling them off and revealing his hands, both of whom had a constant electrical 'webbing' traveling in between the fingers. Giving a little shrug he put his hands on the antennas and closed his eyes for a few seconds before releasing an enormous charge, reaching about the same intensity of a lightning bolt before it dies down, and the brightness of his eyes dim somewhat as he takes a stumbling step back. The electricity seems to have gone from his fingers temporarily, but only a few moments later tiny threads of electrical discharge began building up again, but far from the initial charge.

"To prevent preconceived notions on my part," is Gold's easy response. "He does that sometimes with people who have very unusual powers. For example, when it comes to someone with pyrotechnics, there are only so many ways you can launch a fireball or cause an inferno. On the other hand, for someone who 'flies' on sound waves, it's easier to train them after seeing them in practice. I've been in this business for a while, but there are still a few curveballs every now and then. And sometimes, the most orthodox training methods aren't the best.

"Case in point, me," she continues, voice lowering slightly. That may have been unintentional, but her eyes remain locked with Shades'. "I'm a regenerator. Most training schools, up until about a decade ago, would have just tossed me in the front lines because I can heal from anything, and never bothered with a whole lot of back-up. Sort of using the idea that since that was my biggest gimmick, I might as well exercise it at every opportunity. I'm a low-grade speedster too, but no one even bothered trying to find that out once they found I could take a beating and keep on ticking. My goal as a trainer isn't just to boost your powers. It's to make sure that you're not a one-trick pony, regardless of however the outside world might see you."

"Ahaha! It's beautiful!" he enthuses. The needle is almost (but not quite) to the full right of the reader, while blue, crackling energy dances between the two antenna, even after Haywire removes his hands from the device. Inside the pod which has been connected to the device, a pale blue gel bubbles gently, fluorescing.

"Oh, oh!Just shy of a full lightning bolt, but anything you hit with that won't be getting up again soon! Nine hundred fifty million, boy! That's what you're shooting with!"

His laughter dies down, but the grin doesn't fade as he leans forward conspiratorially.

"Gold can handle it, but you're going to give her a nasty shock. Is this a touch-based power or can you launch it at a distance? Oh, she's going to love you!"

"I.... I can use the air as a conductor," Haywire said as his breathing slowly returned to normal, his hair standing even more on edge than before, making his red and yellow hairdo look like it was on fire. "Not... as effective, but if I put enough juice in it, that doesn't matter." he chuckles darkly as he runs a hand through his hair, the static discharges giving off a crackling sound.

"If you say she can take it, I'll be serious," he took on his gloves, fastening them carefully as he watched the machine with the blue gel with narrowed eyes, perhaps trying to figure out what it was. "But just remember it's not my fault if she... I dunno, melts or pops or something... and shit, 950 millions?" He grins underneath his mask, "Wish I had more control of it, right now all I can do is aim in the general direction and try to limit myself..."

"...Just don't ask me to go around making Lichtenberg figures for you."

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"Oh no, oh no. Sometimes when all you have is an axe, that's what you must use! Sometime, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some readings off you while you're in full electric mode. Nothing too invasive, just heart rate and respiration rate, maybe a blood sample... But oh! If you're going to see her soon, bring a couple of these!"

Paracelsus reaches into a small refrigerator, and removes a small vial, no longer than one fingerlength. It is filled with a viscous substance that matches the pod's contents in color.

"She might need it, but this can be for you too if she loses her temper. Healing gel. Not quite as instantaneous as potions from those video games, but works pretty well. Just smear it on whatever needs to be fixed up until it's absorbed, though you'd need to adjust broken bones and such underneath. This!" he continues with pride, "Won't be making an entry to the civilian markets for a little while."